Memory Album
by Futago no Seishi
Summary: A collection of the various experiences of YGO characters in the form of short ficlets. Yaoi, many pairings, various ratings, and a multitude of genres.
1. One: Moments

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh! nor any of the characters, and this piece of fanfiction is for the sole purpose of entertainment.

**IMPORTANT: **This fic is a collection of all the various vignettes/ficlets which I have written over the last year or so (perhaps longer) relating to Yu-Gi-Oh. All of these have at least some implication of male x male relationships (read: **YAOI**) unless otherwise noted. Most are fluff, some are dark. All are under 1000 words, ratings change with each installment, and pairings jump around all over the place. **This is a proverbial album of the various experiences of Yu-G-Oh characters, in short. **Now that that's been established, onto the details.

**Pairing:** Jou x Ryou  
**Genre:** general  
**Rating: **PG  
**Words:** 582  
**Summary:** Ryou ponders upon Jou and how he makes him feel.

**Memory Album  
****Installment One: Moments**

Life is nothing but a series of moments; eternity shattered into fractional proportions, sequentially laid out one by one along the mysterious path of time.

Ryou oftentimes feels as if he is traveling along in life too slowly. The moments seem to blur together as they pass him by—and they are transient, flitting out from his grasp before he can even comprehend their existence. They lay just a hand's breadth away, always tauntingly close yet out of reach; so he is left hollow and wanting, going through the motions versus experiencing life. He thinks that this is rather unfair, but there is nothing that he can do about it and he is forced to recite lines from a script which holds no deeper meaning to him.

He imagines what it would be like to live in the moment. He has heard such tales from his friends—where life is so awe inspiring that it robs one's breath, leaving them gasping and mesmerized by the happenings; where one is instilled with such exhilaration that all rational thought flees. "Take charge of the moment," they have told him. "Live life to the fullest." Honestly, he wants to try; really, he does. But life travels too quickly for him. He is perpetually in slow-motion, watching as the whirlwind of existence charges by, leaving dust clouds in its wake to blind and further hinder him.

Somewhere along the line, he gave up the chase. He contents himself to lingering in the past, those stepping-stones that have melded themselves into the fabric of time. The past is so much kinder—understanding, perhaps—in that it never changes, and he won't be left struggling with the new developments.

However, Jou shakes the tender foundation which he lingers on, causing him to plummet wildly into the chaos of the present.

He isn't really aware of how it came about. Jou has always been there, a constant in the ever-changing pattern of his life. He was the one to tug him out of the past and help him stumble along the many moments of life. Yet somehow along the way, that stability transmuted into unpredictability, and it was Jou who was pushing him face-first into that blurred mass—those pieces of infinity stacked precariously on top of each other.

All Jou has to do is smile at him, and somehow he would be falling (the initial vertigo is inevitable). He would lose all sense of time, of propriety, of right and wrong—and he would be drowning, burrowing further and further into those dark eyes. He imagines the taste of chocolate and coffee, sweet and bitter upon his tongue before washing into his body to clog his lungs. And he thinks it wouldn't be so bad to die that way, swallowed up in indefinite warmth.

But when Jou turns away, he'd come to a dead halt. Time would speed up around him as he slows down, and back to square one he'd go. He wonders whether this is what his friends have told him of—but he is unsure, therefore he doesn't place any hopes on it. All he allows himself to do is think about his friend and the way his smile fills him with a vague sense of belonging.

He wonders whether there is more to what he feels for his friend—but he fears questioning, so he just lets Jou drag him along the moments and awaits the day when he'll be able to catch up.


	2. Two: Guiding Eyes

**A/N: **>.>;; I am so sorry. I know I promised I'd keep up to date with, well, updates, but life circumstances are horrendous, and they keep me from the computer. So, err, if anyone even reads this still... second installment in the Memory Album.

**Pairing:** None – features Bakura, Ryou  
**Genre:** AU, general  
**Rating: **G  
**Words: **666  
**Summary:** Ryou doesn't need to ever worry; he may not have sight any longer, but Bakura will always be there to be his guiding eyes.

**Memory Album  
****Installment Two: Guiding Eyes**

Some people ask me how I manage to raise such a handicapped child, especially at my young age. Blind and orphaned, with only an elder brother as his sole remaining family member, Ryou was never particularly lucky in life. Never have I heard him complain once, however. It has always been difficult on the both of us, but we manage. I manage because I love him more than I could possibly express, and I like to think that his reason is the same as mine.

"What's it look like?"

We are walking down an alleyway filled with kiosks and vendors. His hand is grasped in mine; he does not need a walking stick or a guide dog, because I am always there for him—to be his guiding eyes. But I had remarked on a still-life of some fruit at an artist's stall, and in his curiosity, Ryou had asked for me to describe the image to him.

"Well, there's an orange sitting next to a glass."

Most of the time though, I'm sure I do this task poorly.

"What does the orange look like?" he asks softly, turning unseeing eyes in the direction he hopes the painting is in, but in reality, he is facing the interested merchant instead.

I let my eyes study the painted fruit for a moment. "It's circular." I try to take my hand in his away and he automatically tenses until I turn his hand over, brushing my fingers lightly over his upraised palm. "Like this," I murmur as I trace a circle on his skin, and he nods slightly in an indication to continue. "And it appears round because of the artist's technique of using perspective."

"Round… on a canvas?"

"Mmhmm… He has made things lighter and darker in certain areas, so it looks like it's round. Like this," I finish as I curl my hand into a fist and place his hand atop it. "But in reality, it's a flat surface."

His fingers wrap around mine and squeeze lightly. There is a pause as he stares at nothing before he shifts closer and whispers into my ear. "And… the colors?" His voice is so frail, almost as if it'd crack with the slightest pressure; as if he is terrified to hear my answer because he could never properly imagine it, but he can't help but want to know at the same time.

"They are…" I start but falter as I look away from his eager face and back to the painting. It's not as if I could say that the orange is orange and the glass is clear, with glimpses of the brown table showing through it. He doesn't know what the colors look like, which forces me to focus on the mood the various hues lend the painting, rather. "They are very… soft. Not sharp nor vibrant, but rather delicate and smooth—comforting, I'm tempted to say."

Ryou continues to stare at the vendor, who now looks away out of embarrassment. Then a soft smile curves his lips before he taps my knuckles lightly. "You already said it."

I cannot help but smile myself as I let our hands link together once more. I nod to the artist before leading my brother away down the street once more. We walk leisurely, just enjoying the breeze and the warmth from our connected hands, and I don't think I could be any happier. It is already a blessing that I still have him by my side, like a guardian angel sent down from above to steer me along the right path in life. Sometimes I think that I would be the one lost without him versus the other way around.

"'Kura?" he starts suddenly, still holding securely onto me.

"Yeah?"

Ryou turns to look at me, but in actuality stares at my chin. "Can we go home now?"

The smile that has crawled onto my lips widens and I squeeze his hand gently to reassure him. "Of course, Ryou."


	3. Three: Summer

**Pairing:** Bakura x Ryou  
**Genre:** AU, dark  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Words:** 615  
**Warnings:** incest, references to self-injury  
**Summary:** Summer is a time to resume old habits.

**Memory Album  
****Installment Three: Summer**

The wind trickles in through the open window, and it is 2:37 am.

He sits upon the bed, legs crossed and hands sprawled over his bare thighs. It is summer, sultry and dangerous, and he closes his eyes in order to imagine. The air is thick and heady upon his lips, coaxing and tempting until he parts his mouth to let it flow in; to curl along his tongue and spiral into his lungs. There it coils like a poisonous snake, writhing through bronchial tubes and clogging the organs just a bit more.

Bitten nails drag across the surface of his comforter. He has owned it since he was twelve and now the threads are wearing away, fading like everything else does over time. He can still see the safari scene that it depicts, so childish that it seems from another life—a different life, perhaps one where he didn't feel so jaded.

When he opens his eyes, he can see Bakura standing in the doorway.

The way he slouches against the doorframe, head cocked to one side and shoulders slumped, reminds him of an advertisement he saw earlier in a magazine. There was a handsome young man, dressed in naught but blue jeans, resting against a doorway in a nonchalant manner so practiced, it would nearly fool were it not so unnatural a pose. But the way Bakura stands there, wearing only black sweats and a knowing smile on his face, seems so painfully real.

"What are you doing there?" he asks absently while rubbing at an itchy spot on his forearm.

Bakura quirks an eyebrow, glancing at the razor blade he's placed on the bed only a few inches from his feet. "I was actually going to ask you the same question."

He picks up the blade, turning it from side to side and watching as it reflects the dull light of the moon. "That's interesting. How about you answer mine first and then I'll answer yours."

His brother shrugs lightly, looking bored. "Couldn't sleep."

He nods, not questioning further. He knows that is not the reason why Bakura wound up at the entrance to his room in the middle of the night, but he doesn't particularly care much. "Same here."

There is a soft hum of acknowledgement and he watches from his peripheral vision as Bakura walks over. The bed shifts with his added weight, and soon there is warm breath against the side of his neck.

"I thought you gave this up." Without permission, Bakura plucks the blade from between his fingers, examining it closely. He would shrug but his brother's chin is upon his shoulder, so he makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat instead. Bakura remains quiet as he tilts his head up and stares at the ceiling, making himself comfortable against the body behind him.

"It's summer," he says.

"Hmm?"

"It's summer," he repeats, as if it explains all; and perhaps, in some small way, it does.

There is a pause before Bakura mumbles a bit, leaning over to drop the blade on the nightstand. "I see."

He isn't sure how it started. Perhaps it began with Bakura's lips on his throat or maybe with his hand on Bakura's thigh. All that he is certain of is the sheer fluidity of everything. Their movements are smooth, their breathing even, and somehow he finds himself lying atop his brother with their bare chests pressed together.

"I thought you gave this up," he remarks absently, quoting his brother as he traces his fingertips along Bakura's ribs.

His bother smiles tightly, tangling strong fingers into his hair. "It's summer," and he doesn't protest as their mouths press together.


	4. Four: First Attempts

**Pairing: **Ryou x Yugi  
**Genre:** romance  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Words:** 560  
**Summary:** First kisses can sometimes be awkward until the right moment.

**Memory Album  
****Installment Four: First Attempts**

"Mmph—ow!"

"S-sorry…"

Ryou pulled away and sighed, shaking his head while rubbing at his teeth absently. "I don't think kissing is supposed to be this painful."

Yugi just stared back while likewise rubbing his front teeth. "Maybe we're just doing something wrong…"

The taller boy sighed softly and flopped down on Yugi's bed, staring up at the ceiling before shrugging a bit. "Is it even possible to do it wrong?"

The owner of the bed merely nibbled on his lip in thought. "Well, it's possible to do it poorly, at least."

"I suppose."

Yugi remained cross-legged next to his best friend, looking at his profile. Along the raised forehead and down the straight nose his eyes traveled before settling upon full lips. Ryou really was pretty, he had to admit.

"Want to try it again?" he offered.

Ryou chuckled a bit, turning his head to look at the other. "Sure, why not?"

When neither of them moved, Ryou started giggling before reaching up his arms and linking them around the other boy's neck, tugging him down. Yugi went with a soft sound of surprise, which was promptly cut off as their lips made contact. Neither of them moved for a second and Yugi continued to stare at Ryou's closed lids before taking the hint himself and letting his vision grow dark.

Ryou's lips were soft and reminded Yugi of velvet, which he thought was rather ridiculous, considering velvet wasn't warm, pliable, or moist. But then again, he found it a bit hard to ponder on that much; he was mostly too preoccupied with wondering what he was supposed to be doing. In fact, he was so worried about trying to fit his lips in a natural manner against Ryou's that he didn't realize he was clenching the bed sheets until the other boy pulled away and started tugging them out of his fist.

"Relax," Ryou breathed, an amused smile flitting on his lips. "It'll defeat the whole purpose of this if you don't enjoy yourself."

Yugi was blushing rather badly, he was sure. But Ryou didn't seem to mind much that he was acting like a bumbling fool (he looked rather entertained, actually), so he nodded. But before he could fully gather his bearings, Ryou was already kissing him again.

"Mmph!" said Yugi.

"Mm," replied Ryou, who then threaded his fingers in Yugi's hair.

Initially, it was clumsy, as most first attempts at kissing generally are. Their noses didn't seem to fit against each other; their lips seemed to be sliding against each other in all the wrong ways; Ryou's hair was tickling his cheek; and Yugi was forgetting to breathe. But then again, maybe that's what made it so exciting when Ryou's tongue brushed against Yugi's lips and he opened his mouth to accept it.

Sometime during the kiss, Yugi had managed to roll completely on top of Ryou. When he drew away for air, he became abruptly aware that their chests and hips were pressed firmly together. The fact that Ryou was giving him a _look_ along with that little smile of his didn't exactly help either.

"That was… considerably better than before," Ryou murmured, sliding his hand lazily down Yugi's back.

The other boy just nodded before asking timidly, "Want to try that again?"

The only reply Yugi received was having his breath stolen once more.


	5. Five: Simple Moments

**Pairing: **None – features Bakura and Ryou  
**Genre:** AU, general  
**Rating: **G  
**Words:** 696  
**Summary:** Bakura reflects on his brother and the simple moments that make life wonderful.

**Memory Album  
****Installment Five: Simple Moments**

"I'llhave two single-scoop cones: one strawberry and the other chocolate."

The vendor nodded as he opened his little cart, grabbing the scooper and reaching in to get their order, a small cone held loosely between his fingers. A mound of soft pink soon emerged, dotted with small bits of red, sitting on top of the metal before it was pressed gently into the wafer container.

Bakura, who had been busy putting the proper amount of money down on the cart, stopped for a moment and took the cone. Ryou smiled as he accepted the treat, holding it between thin fingers before raising it to his mouth and happily enjoying his ice cream.

The money was pushed towards the vendor, who graciously accepted it before proceeding to get the remaining cone.

When all was done and Ryou gave a bright goodbye to the man, the two proceeded down the sidewalk, sandals scraping against the cement as they quietly enjoyed their afternoon snack.

The sun was high in the sky, sending down rays to warm their skin pleasantly and light up the scenery of the beach. The breeze was gentle and cool against their sun-flushed skin, fluttering their clothing and sending the ends of Bakura's button-down shirt billowing in a mass of pale blue and white. The salt of the sea tickled their senses, and it was such a comforting experience that Bakura couldn't help but let the content smile creep up upon his face.

Ryou moved to a stop and leaned against a metal railing, staring out at the ocean bellow as he licked absently at his cone, small, pink tongue darting out catch little droplets of the cream as it melted in the sun.

"It's such a nice day," he remarked cheerily with a small smile aimed at his brother as he wiped away a bit of strawberry ice cream from the corner of his mouth.

Bakura smiled as he moved to one side of his younger brother, likewise leaning against the railing and staring out at the deep blue, sparkling ocean that sprawled out into the horizon as far as the eye could see. The white foam of the waves glided in smooth arcs across the rippling canvas, and he could see the little bodies of swimmers and surfers alike, frolicking in the water.

"Yeah, it is," he agreed as he munched on his ice cream, stretching out his legs and taking in the fresh scent in the air.

They sat like that for a little while longer, neither speaking much aside from murmured comments—and it were as if they were fearful of shattering the peace which had settled upon them like a comforting blanket. They merely listened to the distant laughter of people on the beach and the cries of the seagulls, and the crashing and rushing of the waves met their ears and melded together with the soft whisper of the air.The esoteric symphony of the beach was so beautiful that they couldn't help but admire it as they let the rich ice cream melt inside their mouth.

Ryou had been too caught up in staring out at the beach beneath him to pay much heed to his ice cream. It wasn't until it had begun melting in his hand, little tendrils of flavored cream dripping down the slender curves of his fingers, that he realized that he had yet to finish it. He blinked at it a bit before pouting at it and promptly trying to rectify the damage. So when Bakura looked over, what he saw was his little brother lapping at his fingers, head tilted and lips smeared with ice cream as the wind tousled his pale hair.

Bakura smiled as he took a bite out of his own cone, watching Ryou twist his cone around in vain attempts at catching the ice cream before it melted and dripped further down his hands. He couldn't help the little bubble of happiness that swelled in his chest as he watched his sole sibling.

As he shut his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the wind comb his hair and relishing the chocolate taste upon his lips, he thanked life for the simple moments.


	6. Six: Breathe

**Pairing: **Jou x Ryou  
**Genre:** romance  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Words:** 407  
**Summary:** _Who ever knew that a kiss could make you forget how to breathe?_ Ryou receives a kiss which he'll never forget.

**Memory Album  
****Installment Six: Breathe**

I'll never catch my breath.

No matter how I try, air will simply evade my capture. It'll forever flit around my lips, filling the empty cavern of my mouth but blocked off as it reaches my throat. And I will simply wither away, gasping for air that's just beyond my reach—so perilously close.

Who ever knew that a kiss could make you forget how to breathe?

Sure, I'd heard of such things before. Mostly in novels, where the damsel is swept off her feet as her Prince Charming gallantly gives her a kiss. But never in my entire life would I expect to experience such a sensation.

And especially not from my best friend. My male best friend.

It's not that I'm homophobic or anything like that; trust me, far from it. I just never expected that… well, he was that way. That he was like me.

When Jou casually leaned over, appearing as if he wanted to whisper something into my ear, I leant in closer to meet him halfway. However, instead of feeling hot breath billowing against my ear, what I felt was warm, pliant flesh pressed against my own lips.

The gasp that left my throat allowed that questing tongue to enter my mouth, and successfully rob my breath when it touched against my own. That was the moment I learned that my tongue was directly and intimately connected to my groin. Actually, it seemed that anywhere Jou touched felt as if it were linked to the small area between my legs, from the hand-sized spot on my thigh to the curve of my shoulder.

Jou kissed me silly. Absolutely silly. There's no other way to describe it. He kissed me until my knees turned to putty and all the blood traveled to my head and groin, leaving me feeling dizzy and lightheaded.

Which brings us to the present time being.

My lungs finally remembered their function, and suddenly I could breathe the fresh, clear air once more. Taking a deep gasp, I leave my eyes closed, lips still tingling and head positively reeling.

"So… yeah," Jou murmurs besides me, and I can imagine the blush on his face on the dark screen of my eyelids. "Now you know how I feel."

It took me a moment, but I finally gave my answer.

I promptly leaned over and decided that Jou could learn what it was like to have the very breath stolen from your lips.


	7. Seven: Scrawled

**Pairing:** Bakura x Ryou  
**Genre:** AU, romance  
**Rating: **PG  
**Words:** 820  
**Summary:** Ryou knows he doesn't have to, but he takes painstaking care in shaping his handwriting when writing to Bakura.

**Memory Album  
****Installment Seven: Scrawled**

It is Friday afternoon.

The wind flips the pages of his notebook and pulls at the pegs securing his memories to the ground of his mind. He is afraid that if he doesn't reach out to hold them, they will fly away from him, lost to the pathways of the sky. But they are intangible, like so many of the things which wound him, so he merely sits and watches as blank page after blank page scrolls past his vision.

Everyone has always mocked him for his poor handwriting. Perfect, prissy Ryou, they call him, and then giggle as they point to his scrawled and very imperfect notes. The letters make jagged angles and disproportional loops, a collection of swiggles and curves that resemble the disorder in his mind more than anything else. Half of the time, they don't even make sense to him. They are merely scars upon pristine flesh, after all, and he takes them at their paltry face value.

They are more like art—an embodiment of emotions that, perhaps, he is still unaware of. In his view, their academic value is worthless; he takes them simply for the sake of the action—just to see the marks crisscross over the page. Perhaps hey help him study in a way, but that is only speculation. So it really doesn't bother him when others poke fun at his poor handwriting.

The only time he cares about the appearance of his lettering is in his notes to Bakura.

He sits in class often, practicing the shape and position of his letters. He makes painstaking effort to curl his G carefully and differentiate between his A's and his U's. When he takes his time, his lowercase T's and F's take separate forms, and suddenly his script is neat and flowing, dancing across the page like so many nimble sprites. However, he only applies this care to one singular instance.

The notes are sporadic, spur of the moment events. He fills the papers with his heart and soul, spilling out his thoughts and emotions via uniform lettering. They speak of transcendent values and intimate concern, and he knows that they will be safe from prying eyes, for Bakura understands how important they are to him.

Bakura has often laughed at the care he takes, stating that he can read even his messiest writing, so he need not try. He must agree with that, but he still wants his letters to be perfect. There's a reason why he must do this, he's sure of it; but he can't quite explain it, can't quite grasp it—so he just lets things be and doesn't question the workings of the universe.

A sheet of loose paper escapes from between the pages of the notebook, the oddball of the group—separate and disconnected from the community, left to fester in solitude. He reaches out and snatches it out from the air, crumpling the crisp paper with his fingertips. With almost apologetic care, he smoothes out the crinkles and press it flat with the palm of his hand. He lets his body heat and the pressure of his flesh seep into the piece of paper, almost as if he could iron it back to flawlessness. But his efforts prove futile, so he just toys with the corners of the folded paper as he watches the cars drive past him.

A few more pages flip in his notebook and already it is growing late into the afternoon.

The paper unfolds easily in his hand and he allows his eyes to scan over the words absently. They blur and swirl together, a mass of neat curves and lines, commas and question marks—and he really isn't reading at all. Time passes too slowly in the sphere that surrounds him, and he is forever searching for something to occupy himself; looking for something to fill that void until the missing piece is returned to its slot.

He stops on his signature at the bottom of the page, tracing the syllables before jumping up to the word above: a prelude, or perhaps a sweet confession. _Love, Ryou_, and suddenly Bakura is standing in front of him, eyebrow arched and the line of his mouth contorted in a smirk.

Heat rushes up to his face, wrapping around the curves of his cheekbones and tainting his pallor. Hastily, he folds the letter along its creases once more before pressing it hesitantly into the other's palm—then he is grabbing his books and bag from besides him, head lowered and hair tickling his neck. But before he can sling the backpack over his shoulder, it has been snatched away from his grasp and Bakura has slipped his hand into his empty palm as a replacement.

Bakura grins winningly as he apologizes for being late to pick him up, but he has already forgiven him and the brushing of lips is merely a bonus.


	8. Eight: Illusory

**Pairing: **Ryou? x Jou  
**Genre:** dark  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Words:** 517  
**Summary:** Jou has a rather shocking experience.

**Memory Album  
****Installment Eight: Illusory**

Actions can be surprisingly illusory.

He never imagined that Ryou could ever be so misleading in any of his actions. He always imagined that the docile boy was straightforward and frank, albeit somewhat timid. He was far from deceptive; he wasn't one to take advantage of others and exploit them to achieve what he desired.

Yet, that was just exactly what he did to him.

It was the most unexpected thing to ever happen to him. It wholly shocked him and threw his pleasant little world off its axis, flipping everything upside down until he scarcely knew which direction was up any longer. One moment they were talking quietly with each other and the next the boy was sprawled all over him, lips pressed hungrily against his own.

It was a brutal kiss, the opposite of everything which he had expected of the other. Where he had expected the soft glide of lips, he had received the harsh scrape of teeth. Where he had expected the tentative brush of tongue against his own, he had the cavern of his mouth plundered for whatever measly treasures lay inside. Where he had expected the soft touch of fingers against his shoulder, he had received an unforgiving grip, bruising in its force with carefully tapered nails digging painfully into his flesh. Where he had expected the soft flutter of attraction to linger in his stomach, he had received the jolt of arousal surging through his veins.

He had to admit that it was erotic. That was something which he could not deny; it was the plain truth, after all. He felt submissive beneath the dominating force of the other boy, and something about relinquishing control to someone else gave him such a heady rush—so when Ryou pushed him firmly down on the couch and crawled on top of him, he only groaned in response as teeth clamped down upon the tender flesh of his neck.

It was as if the other boy was determined to devour him—to absorb his tension and swallow his very being whole in his suffocating presence. So when his cell phone rang, jerking the both of them out of this state of delirium, he couldn't help but be slightly disappointed and relieved at the same time.

He fixed his rumpled clothing as he spoke with his sister on the phone, promising her that yes, he would come right away to pick her up, and to give him a few minutes to get his belongings together. With that he hung up and began to pack up his school books, ignored since Ryou had all but assaulted him. He avoided the other boy's gaze, but he could feel it boring into him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck and sending an anticipatory shiver curling down his spine.

When he hastily shuffled out of the door, eyes downcast and murmuring a quick goodbye, he missed the predatory glint in the boy's eyes. And when the door clicked shut, the white-haired boy threw his head back and laughed.

Inside the soul room, Ryou lay unconscious.


	9. Nine: C, G, and E

**Pairing:** Seto x Yami  
**Genre:** romance  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Words:** 704  
**Summary:** Wherein Seto attempts to teach Yami how to play the piano, but the latter seems to have other ideas.

**Memory Album  
****Installment Nine: C, E, and G**

"Not so hard."

Yami sighed a bit, blowing a strand of blond hair out of his eyes as he stared sullenly at the piano, the source of his current grief. The black and white keys merely stretched on to each side of him, laying a very daunting task in front of him: mastering their secret.

Now Yami was a proud man. He would never admit to defeat or inability to accomplish anything. But, he had to secretly agree that yes, the piano was something he certainly wasn't master of. And it made him terribly jealous that Seto could sit down and play eighteen page pieces from memory as if it were second nature.

Sure, it was sexy as hell, but he was still envious.

Replacing his hands once more on the keys, he was just about to push down when—

"Stop. Those are the wrong keys."

Yami glared at the simple sheet music in front of him as if it were its fault that he was doing such a poor job. He somehow wished that the keys would rearrange themselves for him so he _would_ be hitting the right keys for once.

"So what _are_ the right keys, then?" he snapped, just a bit irritated.

Seto chuckled softly besides him before he could hear soft footsteps. Soon, strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and Seto's chin was resting gently on his shoulder, staring down at the keys with him. With gentle pressure, the brunette proceeded to move his hands until his fingers were settled on the correct keys. "You were about to play a G. The first note is an E."

Yami could care less where G, E, or Z was on the piano. All he was really concentrating on at the moment was the warmth of Seto's fingers resting gently on his own, covering his petite hands. Leaning back against the broad chest behind him, he smiled a bit before nodding, pretending he was listening.

"Pay attention, Yami."

Smirking a bit, the shorter man tilted his head and nuzzled his cheek against his lover's upper arm, purring softly. "I am, Seto. Now what were you saying about E?"

Rolling his eyes a bit, Seto shook his head before pressing down upon Yami's index finger using his own, the soft chime of middle E sounding in the room. Letting Seto guide him, Yami slowly began to play the simple melody, the soft tinkling of the piano the only sound aside from their quiet breaths.

When the bar of music was finished, Seto pulled his hands away, leaving Yami feeling empty for a moment. Reaching out, he quickly grabbed the other's hand, linking their fingers together and holding onto him tight.

Seto merely smiled, looking faintly amused at how attached Yami seemed to be. "Can I have my hand back now?" he inquired after a moment.

"No," was the quiet response as Yami reached up, pulling him down for a soft kiss.

Their lips met with gentle pressure—a mere brushing of skin before Yami pulled away, smiling coyly. When Seto attempted to initiate another kiss, his lips only managed to brush against the curve of his lover's cheek as Yami turned his face.

Finally letting Seto's hand go, Yami turned back to the piano, fingers resting once more on the ivory and ebony keys. He certainly had to inclination to play at the moment, but he wanted to see how long he could toy with the brunette. Slowly, he began to hit the ones one by one, eyes trained firmly upon the sheet music.

"Thanks for showing me how to play, Seto." And with that he proceeded to ignore the brunette.

But just as Yami hated being incompetent, Seto hated being ignored. And that was how Yami found himself scooped up into those strong arms and being whisked away to the bedroom.

"You're such a tease," Seto murmured as he all but carried the smaller man out of the lounge.

Yami merely looped his arms around the boy's neck and smirked coolly, shrugging his shoulders lightly. "You know you love it."

When Seto took his lips once more in a breathtaking kiss, all that Yami could think of was fuck C, E, and G.


	10. Ten

**Pairing:** Jou x Ryou  
**Genre:** Romance, slight humor  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Words:** 941  
**Summary:** Jou tells the school counselor about what's on his mind.

**Memory Album  
****Installment Ten**

Ryou tastes like sugar.

Maybe it's a remembered taste from that time when he snuck into my room at four in the morning. It was a Wednesday, and I had school in the morning. Obviously then, I wasn't idiotic enough to be up. So there I was, minding my own business, dead asleep without a care in the world (except the subconscious fear that I was to fail my chemistry exam in about four hours). But I was unceremoniously awoken when an unidentified object landed upon me.

When I came to, I found my cry of shock swallowed up between something distinctively soft and warm.

Initially, my first reaction was to struggle. Limbs went flailing, adrenaline swirled through my veins, and the irrational part of my mind quickly conjured this frenetic conjunction of phrases and inquiries: ohmygoddouble-you-tee-effIcan'tbreatheisthisaburglarI'mtooyoungtodiewhere'sthecopswhenyouneedthem!

Then, as I was suffering from an undue panic attack, my rational mind decided to kick into gear—late as always. After smacking the illogical part of my mind upside the head (figuratively), it endowed me with the much needed conclusion that a criminal would most likely shoot me before leaping onto my stomach. And that said criminal would not likely be inclined to make-out with me, either.

Which, of course, was what the unidentified object was happily doing, and without restraint.

It took me an impressive total of ten seconds to wholly process the situation after the Grand Epiphany made its entrance, with heavenly light shining every which way.

One. Blink owlishly while wishing I could see in the dark.

Two. A soft tongue running along the seam of my slack lips.

Three. Lungs cooperating finally and deciding to reward me with a much needed dose of oxygen. Gasp rings loudly in the silence of the room.

Four. Downside/Upside: tongue has invaded the space of my mouth through parted lips.

Five. Blinking owlishly again, but now no longer dying for air. Mouth still being raped.

Six. Limbs functional at last and manage to push offensive (though debatably pleasurable) unidentified object away.

Seven. Stare some at midnight attacker, now that eyes have adjusted slightly to the dark.

Eight. Stare some more. Attacker/molester stares back placidly before grinning toothily.

Nine. Stare yet some more while mind attempts to absorb this shocking revelation.

Ten. Splutter ridiculously. Proceed to shriek.

R-R… _Ryou_!

His response had been to giggle at that time. As I stared oddly at him, he sat back upon my stomach (my oh so perceptive mind was just comprehending the fact that his slim legs were spread and wrapped around my waist) and supported his weight on his arms, hands pressed flatly to my chest. The little Cheshire cat grin remained upon his lips. One wouldn't expect it, but Ryou is a mischievous little creature. The angelic appearance can beguile rather well—then the proverbial brick tends to fall smartly upon one's head when his complex and often dirty pranks come to culmination.

I should know. Being a close friend of the boy, I generally wound up as his guinea pig more often then not. But I digress.

So there I was, gawping inelegantly and just comprehending that my best friend had kissed me—and then some. Well, that was a shocker.

I stupidly asked him what he was doing. He then proceeded to stupidly reply that he was sitting on my stomach. Right, so we've established that stupid questions deserve stupid answers; but I was too flabbergasted, for obvious reasons, to think straight then.

He apparently found my bewilderment rather amusing, for he giggled some more before bending down close to my face again. I remember his hair brushing against my cheeks—like the whisper of the wind, a spider's web, the physical manifestation of the phantom desires which plague my nights. You know, and all that good stuff. He'd grown his hair out over the course of the year, and it cascaded down his shoulders and draped across the pillowcase like little streams of moonlight.

So I have an obsession with his hair. I admit it.

Well, it all pretty much blurs together in my memory after that point. His lips met mine once more, and I decided that maybe it was for the best to reciprocate the gesture. If my best bud decides he wants to get more than chummy, then I'm one to oblige. The fact that I'd been fancying him for the past two years kind of helped with that decision a bit, though.

I think it was during those next fifteen minutes of learning each other's mouths through our tongues that I realized he tasted like sugar. Later on, I was to learn that he had been sucking on sugar cubes before he'd all but pounced upon me. I have no idea _why _he was snacking on them, but I'm rather glad that he was. How he got to my bedroom or why he was even awake at such an hour remains unknown to me, however.

I suppose it's because of that memory that I always taste a subtle sweetness upon his lips. Or maybe it's just his personality blended into his unique flavor. Whatever.

Oh yeah, and I failed my chem test. Just in case you were wondering.

Why are you looking at me like I'm a weirdo? _You_ were the one that asked me to say what was on my mind—this just happened to be it. Anyways, I didn't ask to come here. Personally, I don't think my track record of detentions and minor delinquency can be cured if I discuss my "issues" with you. No offense, but a counselor isn't going to prevent anything, since I'm just having harmless fun—sorry I don't have any more "issues" to impress you with. That's for the school to decide, not me.

Uh, so… can I go now? My half hour's up.


	11. Eleven: Sunset

**Pairing:** Jou x Ryou  
**Genre:** romance  
**Rating:** PG  
**Words:** 760  
**Summary:** Of sand fights, sunsets, and warm smiles.

**Memory Album  
****Installment Eleven: Sunset  
**

Ryou always did love the sunset.

That's why he often took the other boy down to the beach nearby, sitting with the windows down in his old car and letting the wind whip their hair around their faces. The ride would be spent in the same manner each and every time: Ryou would be talking quietly, with him laughing and interjecting in the midst of the boy's sentences as they cruised down the road. Ryou would pout and tell him that he should let him finish what he was saying, but he would merely turn and smile charmingly at the other boy.

That usually quieted Ryou, as he would avert his eyes and stare out of his open window at the passing scenery instead, a faint blush tainting his cheeks.

By the time they reached the beach, the blue sky was already turning a soft, rose color, the dying sunbeams leaving golden streaks across heaven's canvas and casting a warm glow upon them. They kicked off their sandals and stepped into the cool sand, feeling it shift between their toes as they strolled along the shore, shoulders bumping into each other on occasion due to their close proximity.

After a few moments spent in silence, he trailed back a bit before kicking up some sand at Ryou with his foot, laughing without restraint as the other let out a shocked noise and turned to glare back at him.

"What was that for?" the boy demanded sourly, pursing his lips at him, and he couldn't help but think that he was incredibly adorable.

"Nothing," he replied with a cheeky grin before unearthing some more sand and sending it flying at the other boy. Then with a cackle, he proceeded to run down the beach, ignoring Ryou's angry protests as the sand sunk beneath his feet.

"Oi!" Ryou yelled as he chased after him, laughing in spite of himself, the sound bright and soothing against his ears. And although he was an athlete, the younger boy still managed to catch up with him (that slender figure was awfully fast) in time, and suddenly he found a heavy weight propelling into him with full force.

"Ahh!" The cry left his mouth as he was tackled, falling face first down in the sand and barely catching himself in time before he ended up with a mouthful of it. Ryou was giggling above him as he straddled his waist and all but sat on his back, showing absolutely no signs of moving at all.

He groaned as he squirmed beneath the other. "Let me go!" he whined as he tried to push Ryou off of him, but the other pressed down firmly—and he could practically see the wide, complacent grin that was most likely plastered upon that soft, rounded face.

"Not a chance," Ryou cooed back. And then before he even knew what was going on, he found a clump of sand being dropped into his hair.

"Gah! Ryou!" All that he received in reply was amused giggling as the other rubbed the sand into the blond strands gleefully.

"Serves you right. You started it."

"Mou... you're so cruel," he mock pouted as he gave in to his fate and lay still on his stomach, wondering absently whether he'd be able to get all the sand out of his hair or not. But in the midst of his pondering, suddenly he found the weight lifted off his back. He blinked a bit and rolled over, now lying on his back as he stared up at the shorter boy, a slight look of curiosity twisting his features.

"Hmm?"

Ryou just smiled as he settled his weight down upon him once more, wind chilled hands cupping his cheeks and leaving a few grains of sand upon the skin. Looking up into the other's deep, warm eyes, all he did was raise an eyebrow as a thumb stroked against his cheekbone absently.

"And just what are you doing?" he asked as his own arms lifted and pulled the other boy down, hands sliding around his back and holding him close. Their faces were mere inches apart and he could feel Ryou's breath ghosting across his face, his hair draping down over them.

"Nothing." And with that nonchalant reply, the other pressed his lips against his own, sharing warmth and breath. As they kissed upon the sand, the sun dipped down beneath the horizon, turning the sky a rich, fiery hue.

Though Jou loved the sunset as well, he'd have to say that he loved Ryou considerably more.


	12. Twelve: Desecrated

**Pairing:** None – Ryou-centric; features Bakura  
**Genre:** AU, Angst  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Words:** 341, 218  
**Warnings: self-injury  
****Summary:** Ryou's body is naught but a desecrated landscape.  
**A/N:** Two ficlets written at different times but on the same topic, so I thought I'd group them together. They work with each other.

**Memory Album  
Installment Twelve: Desecrated**

One.

Dots and pinpricks of blood well up at the incision, beading together—a heavy weight, a sac hanging off the delicate white skin of his inner thigh. Then it falls, sliding, a red, wet trail down the flesh—a story of pain and frustration, eons old.

Two.

Another welt, another incision. The blood runs pink as it drips into the bathwater, leaving pools of grotesque tie-dye by his leg.

Three, four, five, six.

It doesn't really hurt—not when he's doing it initially. It's just a physical shock, a jolt to his system that brings perspiration to his palms and a wild thump to his heartbeat. It clears his head, and suddenly, the muddle of his mind becomes as pristine as an untouched well.

It's a rush: a wild, electric rush.

The pain only comes with the healing process. When the flesh around the cuts swell, forming a knot of white-hot pain that stings deeply all up his legs and arms. The burn only comes from healing, and sometimes, he wishes the cuts would remain raw and bleeding, just so he can watch the streams of crimson cascade down his pallid body.

It's a beautiful contrast.

When he reaches seventy, the razor drops from his lax fingers to sink lifelessly to the bottom of the bathtub—the quaint, white, porcelain bathtub filled with rose-tinted water.

It somehow feels wrong, defiling something so pure.

Oh, but his skin certainly isn't—it's far from pure. It's a wasteland: a graveyard of broken dreams and dashed hopes, littered with a myriad of gravestones. They are long and short, thin and wide, deep and narrow, and he has so many, his whole body has become a paradox: tainted sacred ground.

Desecrated graves upon the dirt of his mind.

When Bakura knocks on the bathroom door, asking softly if he is alright, he doesn't answer. His brother knows the unspoken response he can't dare speak aloud.

He can imagine the sad look on Bakura's face, and buries his head between his wet thighs and cries.

-----

Early morning sunrise.

He sits upon his bed, face tilted towards the window. Bars of faint light stretch across his features, an ethereal glow upon the already pallid expanse of his skin. The light glides across the smooth curve of his cheeks, dropping into the dips beneath his eyes and are swallowed up by the greedy pools of shadow that reside there.

Today is a school day.

He sits upon the sheets—crumpled sheets, and out of the corner of his eye, he spots the bedcovers coming undone from the mattress. The sheets are soft, worn with years of use. Yet, they are rough, unbearably so, against the raw welts that line his legs.

He lifts a gentle hand and runs the pad of his fingers against the swollen incisions along the outside of his calf, feeling the rise of flesh and tracing the tiny mountain ranges upon his skin. He imagines that there is a sunset across his landscape. The dying rays of light paint the various peaks rose and burgundy, crimson and pale mauve—and they are terribly beautiful, yet so grotesque he almost can't stand them.

He draws his legs up to his chest, curling around his own landscape of pain, hiding from himself.

The clock ticks 6:52, and he shall be late for school.


	13. Thirteen: Intrigue

**Pairing:** Bakura x Yami  
**Genre:** AU, general  
**Rating:** PG  
**Words:** 632  
**Summary: **Bakura, the bartender at a bustling casino, meets a rather intriguing patron.  
**Dedication:** To LilPurplFlwr, who is my idol, love, and coconspirator for world domination.  
**A/N:** Because LilPurplFlwr is the best person in the world and I love her fic "Whatever Happens Here, Stays Here," so I had to write a little fanfiction for her fanfiction. Because Bartender Bakura is the total awesomeage (whoa, check out the alliteration). oo Set in the realm of "Whatever Happens Here, Stays Here"—Vegas, baby! Go read her fic now if you haven't already—I command thee!

**Memory Album  
****Installment Thirteen: Intrigue**

Well, hello.

A customer. A very good-looking customer, to clarify. Slender, petite build, yet toned in all the right places. Svelte figure and tapered waist, rounded thighs with the light definition of underlying muscle. Fashionable club-style hair dyed a myriad of colors: red, purple, black, blond. A heart-shaped face with sharp, dark features. A soft mouth, curved in a way that resembled the petals of some exotic flower.

Oh, but those eyes.

Those were the types of eyes that lured saints into iniquity. They raged with a subdued fire, challenging one to unleash their power. They reflected every single desire that one could harbor, and promised all the more.

Bakura found himself caught within that intense gaze, and leaned over the counter as the other sat down.

"What can I get you?"

"Scotch on the rocks." A smooth voice, deep and alluring.

Bakura went about his business, preparing the drink. As he was pouring the alcohol into the glass, he couldn't help but think that it was a strangely appropriate drink for such a fiery person.

The glass slid smoothly across the surface of the bar to be snatched up by slender fingers. The other man lifted the glass to his lips, letting the cool liquid burn down the column of his throat. Bakura watched the slow bob of his Adam's Apple with intense admiration.

"Hard night of gambling?" he asked conversationally, hoping to persuade the handsome man to stay just a bit longer.

A soft clink sounded as the glass was placed down, and the other wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Mm, you could say. A hard night for the dealers."

His eyebrow arched as he listened to the other while absently polishing some glasses. "Big win?"

"Quite a few, actually." Another sip, eyes fluttering shut.

He chuckled softly. "Watch out or you might put the casino out of business, there."

The only response he received was a sly smile.

Normally, around this time, he would be scanning the crowd around the lounge, constructing their past with his imagination. A balding middle-aged man—he suffered from depression as a teenager up through his twenties; eventually turned to alcoholism. A young debutante—she's secretly a cutter, hence the long-sleeve dress, and is engaged to a boy well beneath her class. He found enjoyment in picturing the past of the many faces he saw every day, and it became somewhat of a hobby of his.

But for some reason, he simply could not tear his eyes away from the interesting young man before him.

"So what's your name?"

Soft lips quirked demurely, and the man with the startling eyes leaned over the bar, face hovering close to his. "Why do you want to know?"

Bakura could feel the other's breath ghosting against his face, and he could care less about the other customer that just sat down. "Just curious, I guess you could say."

The glass was lifted once more to rose-stained lips, and after another sip, the other answered. "Yami."

"Yami," he repeated, letting the name roll off his tongue in velvet syllables. "Nice to meet you."

"Mm, same to you…" a pause as crimson eyes glanced down at his nametag, "… Bakura-san."

The newly arrived customer coughed politely, inviting his attention. He turned his head to nod at him, reassuring him that he'd be right over in a few moments.

Yami merely smiled softly again, sitting back up in his chair. "I see that you're a busy man, Bakura-san, and so am I. It's a shame, but I'm afraid I must take my leave now." And with that comment, he slid smoothly off the barstool, making his way out into the lounge.

"Perhaps I'll see you around."

Watching the disappearing figure, Bakura sure hoped that he would.


End file.
